1 Year In
by featherinmycap
Summary: In the wake of a nuclear strike against the United States which has destabilized the government and divided the nation, a series of strangers find themselves forced together by a deadly plan that could spell the end of not only America, but the entire world. They have only one choice: to move beyond their pasts and unite to save what is left of their home.
1. Chapter 1: Out of the Ashes

"1 Year In"

Prologue

1 Minute In: It begins with light, a white wave that blazes through the city, shattering foundations, melting steel, and turning trees and people alike into ash. Monuments crumble into dust. Buildings are burned to their bones. Within seconds, the center of the nation's capital is reduced to a smoldering crater. The only remnants of the city are the scattered skeletons of buildings, charred black by the heat of the explosion. Those who have the misfortune to escape the epicenter of the explosion are instead seared to the bone by a wave of super-heated air. Even though the initial blast only reaches a one-mile radius, those on the outer edges of the city are still at the mercy of the radiation, which spreads out like the ripples in a pond, until Washington, D.C. has become one mass grave. The fortunate few who are far enough away to survive the bomb stare at the aftermath as the sky slowly turns a deep red, a sunrise at noon. They have no way of knowing that at that same moment, New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and San Francisco are all ablaze.

2 Days In: The President, Vice President, Speaker of the House, President pro tempore, and Secretary of the State are all dead, killed either in the initial attacks or by the resulting radiation. By now, the word has spread that North Korea was behind the attack. However, it was joined by China. The true reason behind the nuclear attack has not yet been identified. However, the international relations between the United States and Asia had been deteriorating ever since the election of President James Walker to office. By the time the first nuclear missile hit, the United States had already returned fire, but by then there was no hope of averting the disaster. It was nothing more than vengeance, the final bite of a cornered beast sensing the end. As the shock from the explosions slowly fades, terror sets in. With the chain of command in disarray, the United States Military takes control. In the panic following the explosions, the death toll continues to rise as the survivors begin to succumb to dehydration and disease, or are killed by looters.

2 Weeks In: Aide to the affected cities decreases after an American Red Cross van is robbed and the doctors aboard are killed. What supplies actually make it to the cities are quickly hoarded by a small percentage of the survivors, while the rest are left with nothing. America declares war on North Korea and China, but the country is in such an upheaval that most of the soldiers are needed simply to keep the peace. England and France declare war on North Korea and China.

1 Month In: In the absence of an official leader, the military elects General Nathaniel Lawson to lead the United States. Aide to the afflicted zones increases slowly under his command. The areas surrounding the affected cities are evacuated. The hospitals are overwhelmed with victims of radiation poisoning. The announcement is made nationwide that all looters will be shot. For the first time since the attack, crime begins to decrease.

6 Months In: Every vestige of democracy is gone. After six months of limping along under the command of General Lawson, the government finally collapses, smothered by the body count that keeps climbing as the smaller cities run out of provisions and the radiation in the water slowly poisons the earth. While visiting Boston, General Lawson dies in an accident. His second-in-command, a general named Roger Casey, takes control. A small faction of the military breaks away and establishes itself in the Western states. General Casey announces that the primary objective of the military will from now on be to maintain order in the United States through any means necessary. A new, extremely aggressive form of influenza breaks out in California. The state is placed under quarantine.

8 Months In: Under orders from General Casey, the United States Army begins rounding up known criminals, suspected traitors, and dissenters. Those who resist are imprisoned or killed. Overwhelmed by the sudden rush of immigrants, Canada and Mexico close their borders to United States citizens. Hurricane Harland hits Florida, destroying Miami and the surrounding cities.

10 Months In: The population of the United States has been cut in half. Foreign aid continues to diminish as the situation shows no sign of improving. General Casey instructs the military to arrest anyone trying to leave the country. Roving packs of scavengers raid towns, abducting women and children and killing indiscriminately. The death toll continues to rise.

1 Year In

Part 1: The Survivors

Chapter 1: Out of the Ashes

The doctor picked his way through the rubble of the hospital. The only benefit of the end of the world was that you didn't have to forge prescriptions anymore. No one cared if you self-medicated. The problem was that after a year, most of the obvious places had been picked clean, which meant that in order to keep his pain under control, he had to venture into places that most sane people would avoid. This city had not been bombed, which lessened the risk of radiation poisoning, but a toppling wall would kill him just as effectively as a tumor.

He sidestepped a broken spear of metal piping that jutted out from the wreckage. Tetanus was just another convenient way to die nowadays. He had plenty of antibiotics with him, left over from last month, when he stumbled upon a pharmacy that had somehow escaped the notice of the other foragers. He had cleaned it out, filling his tattered doctor's bag, in addition to restocking multiple hidden stores that he kept stashed around his base of operations. Unfortunately, the pharmacy lacked the one thing he needed the most: Vicodin. He had a small stash of morphine, but in the kind of world the United States had become, you had to keep your wits about you if you wanted to survive. Once, two months ago, he had been unable to find any painkillers for over two weeks, and he finally caved in and broke into the morphine. It was a mistake that almost cost him his life. That same night, his camp was discovered by a stray band of raiders. Caught up in a morphine-induced dream, he had barely woken in time to hide. They had stolen most of his supplies, while he huddled underneath the burned-out shell of a white Chevy pickup. Ever since then, he had resolved to save the morphine for emergencies only.

As he walked, the doctor leaned heavily on a black cane. It helped relieve some of the pressure on his leg, but he still winced as he walked. His cane was the only familiar thing left. It had somehow survived the end of the world, like him. Although he knew that it was only an inanimate object, he couldn't help but feel a vague attachment to the last remnant of his life before what he liked to call "The Beginning of the End". It was an overdramatic idea, true, but if the collapse of modern America didn't merit some drama, what did?

He kicked aside a rusty can and fought the urge to curse. The hospital was a wreck. Finding any medicine would take all day. He disliked being out in the open for so long. This new world was even less kind to the infirm than the previous one had been. Most of the time, he stayed out of sight, preferring to save his errands for night. However, it would have been impossible to comb through this disaster area in the dark. His one and only friend had always told him that he was paranoid. This situation had not helped matters. The sound of a charred beam settling further into decay was enough to make him jump, fully expecting a bullet to coming crashing into his back.

After what seemed like an eternity of rummaging around in the rubble, he unearthed a battered prescription bottle. With one hand, he wiped the dirt off of the label. A frustrated groan escaped from him. Prozac. Great. He was about to toss the bottle aside when he heard a faint knocking. It was coming from a pile of drywall that he assumed had once been a waiting room. Still watching his step, he made his way slowly towards the sound. When he was four feet away from the wall, he heard a muffled voice accompanying the knocking.

"Hello? Somebody out there?"

"Hello?" The doctor called out.

"Finally. I've been stuck in here for hours. This stupid room just caved in on me. Could you…no wait…oh, finally. It's about time."

There was a sudden rumbling sound. The doctor stumbled back away from the wall moments before it exploded outwards in a rain of plaster. Waving a hand in front of his face, a man emerged from the chalky cloud. He was tall, thin but with a strong build. His thick black hair was in disarray, a turbulent black sea over thick black eyebrows and dark eyes that burned with an almost manic energy. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark jeans. The shirt was stained with blood, but the man did not seem to be injured. On the contrary, he held himself like a prize fighter, his shoulders straight and chin raised to a haughty angle.

The man looked over his shoulder at his prison. "I hate walls." He turned to look at the doctor. With a critical eye, he sized him up. "Just as well that my ability finally decided to clock back in. I doubt you would have been able to do anything anyway."

The doctor stiffened. "At least I'm not a moron who got trapped in a pile of rubble." He pointed at the stains on the man's shirt with his cane. "How did that happen?"

The man looked down at his chest. "Oh. Back when the room caved in, I didn't get out of the way as quickly as I'd have liked."

"Are you hurt?"

The man shrugged. "Not anymore." The corners of his mouth twisted upwards in a smile. "I'm special that way."

Taking care not to trip over the scattered pieces of plaster, the doctor ventured closer to get a better look. It was definitely blood, but he could detect no sign of a wound.

Part of him begged to take a moment and try to solve this anomaly, but self-preservation won out. He could always puzzle over it later. A sudden pain shot through his leg, causing him to wince and take a step back. His free hand moved down to massage his aching muscles. Vicodin. That was the main priority right now.

"How far into the hospital did you get?" he asked the stranger.

The man cocked his head back over his shoulder. "I explored most of the lower floor. Nothing too interesting in there. The food is all gone from the vending machines. I wouldn't risk it, not in your condition."

"What about the pharmacy? Did you see any pill bottles left?"

The man considered the question, and then nodded. "Yeah, I saw plenty of pills. Towards the back of the hospital. The walls are pretty unsteady, though. Are you sure you want to go in there?"

"Absolutely."

The man stared at him for another moment. Whatever he saw, it seemed to convince him that the doctor wasn't joking. "Fine. I'll tag along. You never know; you might need a hand, or a leg." This time his smile had an edge to it.

The doctor smiled back. "And you might need rescuing if another wall decides to pick on you."

"Touché." The man held out his hand. "My name's Gabriel."

Since his pride was still stinging a little bit, the doctor left Gabriel hanging for a few seconds before leaning forward to take his hand. "I'm House."

"Nice to meet you, House." He gestured towards the ruined hospital. "Shall we?"

The front of the hospital had been gutted by an explosion, leaving chunks of concrete scattered across a once grand entryway and waiting room doors sagging on broken hinges. In a few places, the walls had completely collapsed. House glanced up at the ceiling and immediately wished that he hadn't. The ceiling looked ready to drop on their heads at the slightest provocation. He picked up the pace as much as his cane and the general state of disarray would allow. Gabriel led the way, striding purposely a few steps ahead, surprisingly unperturbed for a man who had just escaped from a cave-in. Following behind him, House could see more dried blood on the back of his neck, almost as if his head had been cracked open. However, like with the shirt, there was no visible sign that any injury had occurred.

He noticed that the man was wearing a watch. "I thought one of the perks of the end of the world is that you didn't have to worry about being late for anything. Why wear a watch?"

Gabriel didn't even glance at it. "It's broken."

"Then why wear it?" House asked.

"To remind myself," said Gabriel."

"Of what?"

"Of who I once was." Gabriel looked back over his shoulder at House. "You're awfully inquisitive."

"You're awfully interesting," said House.

"Nice to hear. I've always thought so." Gabriel pointed ahead. "The nurses' station is just ahead. It's got piles of bottles in it. I didn't bother to clean it out when I was back here. I don't have much use for painkillers. That's what you're after, right?"

House paused to massage his leg. "How did you guess?" He pulled a pill bottle from his pocket and shook two white pills out onto his palm. Ignoring Gabriel's piercing eyes, he swallowed the pills.

"Intuition. I'm a slave to it."

When they reached the nurses' station, House tried to open the door. It must have been blocked from the inside, because it refused to budge, no matter how hard he shoved on the door. Gabriel motioned him aside. "Let me."

House expected for Gabriel to try to shove the door open just like he had done. Instead, Gabriel simply stared at the door and raised his right hand. Fingers extended stiffly, he pushed at the empty air. The door flew inwards, crashing against the opposite wall.

Noticing House's stare, he shrugged. "I told you, I'm special. I'm guessing you're got it from here? Since we're back here, I'd like to check out a few more rooms, if that's alright with you."

Without waiting for House to respond, he turned and walked down one of the adjoining corridors. "See you later."

It took House another five infuriating minutes of rummaging around in the nurses' station to find the right bottle. The explosion that had taken out the front of the hospital had not reached this far back, but the force of the detonation had been enough to knock every pill bottle onto the floor. A few had even broken open, spilling their multi-colored contents across the floor like a broken gumball machine. He ignored the antibiotics and anti-depressants for the moment, focusing on his true goal like a drowning man focusing on a life raft. The moment he spotted the familiar label, he let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding. True, he had a decent store of Vicodin already stashed, but with every passing day it became less likely that he would find any more to replenish his supplies. Every bottle pushed back the terrible Detox Day. He could still remember the last time he had been forced to break free from Vicodin. That time, he had been in a hospital, and it had still nearly killed him. Part of him hoped that he would die before he ran out. He risked another glance up at the cracked ceiling. At this rate, he would probably get his wish.

In total, House was able to find six bottles of the blessed white pills. He hurriedly stashed them into his bag, only taking the time to pop one into his mouth. Next, he began a more careful search of the bottles. He would have liked to take all of them, just in case, but it was a long, arduous hike back to his hideout, and he only had the one bag with him. He examined each bottle, trying to decide whether he would need it in the future. He left the anti-depressants and other psychological medications alone, preferring to stock up on antibiotics. If the end of the world wasn't enough to push him to suicide, nothing would be. It wasn't like the situation could get much worse. The military had almost completely abandoned their feeble efforts at restoring America to the shining empire it had once been. Now they were more concerned with fighting the roving packs of bandits who preyed off of the weak and defenseless and arresting anyone who had the misfortune to look suspicious. It had been months since House had seen a policeman in uniform.

_Well, at least they were able to confine the influenza outbreak to the West Coast._ When he had heard about the new strain of influenza that was racing up and down the coast of California, he had thanked the heavens that he was in Ohio, something which he had previously never expected to do. After faking his death, he had decided to reestablish himself somewhere no one was likely to come looking for him. He had been at Grant Medical Center in Columbus on the day that everything changed. Not as a doctor; those days were over. He had been a patient after wrecking his motorcycle. Everyone had panicked when the news hit. The doctors and patients alike had run up and down the halls, trying to evacuate, convinced that Columbus would be next. He had decided to take advantage of the situation and slip out before someone had the chance to ask any uncomfortable questions about his past or why he had been carrying three bottles of Vicodin when he crashed his bike. All of the hullaballoo was pointless, as far as he was concerned. If somebody decided to nuke Columbus, there was very little that they could do to stop it, so there was no point in making a fuss.

After leaving the hospital, he had found an abandoned apartment and hunkered down to wait out the chaos. He had originally intended to only stay there for a few days until the streets quieted down, but he had ended up staying in the apartment for over four months. Just as well, as it turned out. Two months after the nuclear strikes, a riot had broken out, only five blocks from his apartment. The third shipment of emergency provisions had been redirected under orders from the military, and the citizens of Columbus had taken it as well as could be expected. They had protested, and then the protests turned into a riot, and then the riot had turned into a battle. In the end, the military had sent in troops to subdue the insurgents. Still on edge from the nuclear attacks, they ended up destroying almost as much of the city as the rioters. This hospital had apparently been one of the casualties. After a few weeks of fighting, both sides simply gave up, many of them preferring to abandon the city than help it limp along. Eventually, House had moved out into a more suburban section. At present, he was living in the basement of an abandoned split-level, a half-day's walk away from the heart of the city. It was remote, but safe.

To be honest, disease worried him more than actual physical violence. It wasn't that the thought hadn't crossed his mind that a lone cripple presented the perfect target for a robbery; he simply preferred to focus on the dangers that he could actually do something about. As he continued to search through the piles of nondescript bottles, his thoughts drifted back to the strange man who had evidently become his new foraging companion. Gabriel. He hadn't offered any last name, but then, House hadn't given out his first name. Full names didn't mean much anymore. The far more interesting mystery was the blood on his shirt and neck. If Gabriel had actually lost that much blood, he should have been hardly able to stay on his feet, much less shove his way through a plaster wall. Then there was his trick with the door. It was insane, but House could have sworn that Gabriel had pushed the door open just by moving his hand. However, that was impossible. Psychics didn't exist. He must have been imagining things.

House's curiosity had very nearly gotten him killed on more than one occasion. Of course, it had also helped him save dozens of lives. He craved puzzles even more than Vicodin. One thing was certain; Gabriel was more than he seemed. Suddenly, House's leg didn't bother him at all.


	2. Chapter 2: A Glimpse of the Future

Chapter 2: A Glimpse of the Future

It was happening again. Shawn quickly found a place to sit, before his legs gave out underneath him. Last time, he had made the mistake of trying to power through the vision and had wound up with two scraped palms and a sore elbow from nearly falling on his face. He settled down onto the curb and closed his eyes, trying to fight a sudden wave of nausea. Everything spun for a moment, and then, even though his eyes were still shut tight, he saw it. There was a fire, a great fire, raging inside a building. His feet were glued to the pavement, even though he knew he had to brave the flames. A hand reached out from behind him, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. He stared into the shadowed face of a man with dark hair and the kind of face that normally would have sparked a hint of jealousy in him. However, instead a sudden sense of relief washed through him.

"I thought you were inside," he heard himself say.

The man shook his head. "We got out. We're still no closer to finding them, though." He turned to stare into the gathering night. "We should get back to the camp. He'll be worried sick."

"I didn't think sociopaths got worried."

The man looked back at him, opening his mouth. However, whatever he was about to say was drowned out by a sudden rushing noise, like the tide coming in.

Shawn opened his eyes. His hands were clenched into fists, so tightly that his fingers hurt when he straightened them. He checked his watch. Less than a minute. That was good. As horrible as some of the things that he saw were, the worst part about the visions was that he was completely defenseless while he was seeing them. The first time he had had one, Jules had been there to watch him, but now he was on his own. Of course, if this vision played out like the others had, he wouldn't be alone for much longer.

The man had said that "we're still no closer to finding them". Who did he mean by "them"? Did "them" include Juliet? Would this man end up helping him in his search? After weeks of hunting without any progress, it was almost too much to hope for.

Shawn rose to his feet, staggering for a moment before his sense of balance fully returned. For years, he had pretended to be a psychic. He had faked having premonitions, visions, even communicating with the dead. He had relished the reactions of those around him. As the one and only psychic consultant for the Santa Barbara Police Department, he had had the freedom to act however he wanted, while still helping people. There had been a few close calls when his secret had nearly been discovered, but thanks to Gus and Jules, he had always managed to keep his cover. He had never imagined that one day it might not be pretend.

Juliet's closest guess towards why he was becoming psychic was that the radiation from the bombs had affected his perception of the world. Most people had died from the radiation; he had somehow gained some kind of second sight. He was used to being observant, that was the way he had been raised, but this was much more. Now he was seeing more than what was in front of him; he could see things before they happened. Of course, it hadn't helped him when Juliet was taken.

Gus and his family had headed north in search of a safer place to live. Gus had wanted to come with him, but Shawn refused to let him leave his wife and son. They needed him more right now. Still, it was difficult traveling alone, especially when a vision could incapacitate him at a moment's notice. Most of them didn't even make any sense. They were nothing more than scattered flurries of images. Sometimes he would go days without seeing anything, and then he would have five in the same day. He found himself wishing that they would at least come at a set time, so that he would be able to prepare for them. Right now, he was completely at the mercy of fate.

Juliet had thought that he was going crazy when he first told her what he had seen. She had been convinced that the radiation had given him a brain tumor or that the stress was driving him mad. Then what he saw started coming true. After a month, he accepted it. Somehow, he had become psychic. Whoop-de-doo. Of course it would happen when there was no longer a Santa Barbara Police Department to work for. Once again, he found himself wishing that the police department had been able to hold out a little longer, at least long enough for him to show off a bit. This new addition to Shawn's repertoire would have annoyed Lassiter to no end. Lassie had always doubted his abilities, with good reason. Back then, being psychic had been nothing but an act, a way for him to do police work without having to act like a police officer. Now, when it no longer mattered, he was finally an actual, honest-to-God psychic. If only his father could see him now.

Shawn closed his eyes, trying to remember every detail of what he had seen. So few of his visions were this coherent; this one had to be important. One of the unfortunate aspects of his visions was that they faded quickly, like dreams after waking. Juliet had recommended that he write them down in a journal as soon as they were over. However, true to form, he had lost the journal. He had had a hard enough time keeping track of the cordless phone in his office; how could he be expected to keep track of a pocket-sized journal in the middle of an apocalypse? He had always prided himself with his ability to remember details; it was what had allowed him to play the psychic all those years. Unfortunately, his visions seemed immune to any of the memory tricks that his father had taught him.

As he concentrated, he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his collarbone. It was just another reminder of the day he lost Jules. At least he was still alive. The knife that had left that scar had been aimed at his throat. If it had cut even an inch higher, he would be dead right now and Jules would be completely on her own. He hoped that she hadn't given up on him. After she had discovered his secret, their relationship had very nearly ended, and even though she had eventually forgiven him, he sensed that her trust in him had never completely recovered. Did she know that he was coming for her, or had she given him up for dead?

The worst part was that he had known Juliet was going to be taken. He had seen it the night before, but he hadn't understood the meaning of the vision until it was already happening. By then, there was nothing he could do to stop them. Now, every time he had a vision he hoped that she would be in it, and that she would be safe. However, this latest vision was the first one to hint anything about her, and the hint had been implied at best.

He remembered watching a movie with Juliet where a man who could see the future was looking for a woman who kept showing up in his visions. No matter what he did, she always seemed just out of reach, and when at last he found her, they were only together for a few days before fate pulled them apart again. It was supposed to be tragic, but Jules had laughed at the absurdity of it.

"As if something like that could happen in real life," Juliet had said, her head resting on his chest.

He had wrapped his arms around her. "You never know; something like that could actually happen. After all, I'm a psychic."

She had looked up at him. "You're only a fake psychic. It's not the same."

"But if I was a real psychic, would you be my Jessica Biel?"

Juliet pretended to think about it, and shifted in his arms to kiss him. "No. I like our story."

Standing alone in an abandoned street, surrounded by empty cars and broken windows, Shawn almost laughed at the memory. Their story had certainly changed. A sudden realization made him groan. "Great. Now I'm Nicholas Cage. As if the end of the world wasn't bad enough."

A voice spoke up from behind him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Cage."

Shawn spun around, wishing for the hundredth time that he had some sort of weapon.

The man held up his hands. "Easy! I'm not going to hurt you. I was just wondering if you knew what time it is. I'm supposed to be meeting somebody and my watch finally broke."

"Dear God, where did you come from?" Shawn exclaimed.

The man turned and pointed down an alley that connected to the street on the left. "Most immediately, over there. Previously, New York City."

"Really? Then why aren't you…" said Shawn.

"…a pile of ash? Peter and I were on an assignment chasing an art forger in Buffalo. Never did catch her." The man cocked his head slightly, concern slightly wrinkling his brow. "I saw you sitting on the curb. You looked like you were in pain."

Shawn rubbed his temples with one hand. "Just a headache. I'm fine. Sorry, but I don't have a watch. I didn't think people made appointments to meet other people anymore."

"Well, my friend is an advocate for precision. He likes setting timetables, even if keeping track of the time is nearly impossible nowadays."

Shawn had no reply to that. He was too focused on staring at the man's face. There was something about the man that was infuriatingly familiar. He was slender, dressed in a dark suit that automatically put him at odds with his surroundings, with bright blue eyes and brown hair that was so dark it was almost black. In one hand he held a slightly battered black hat. His overall bearing was one of refinement. When he smiled, his smile was self-assured, almost cocky, yet honest. All in all, there was a sense of openness and trustworthiness that emanated from him. Shawn could feel himself relaxing just by being in this man's presence.

Suddenly, the connection clicked into place. This man seemed familiar because Shawn had seen his face only minutes earlier. This was the man from his vision. As the realization settled in, he felt his gift spark into life again, throwing up a few random pictures into his mind. An amber music box. A woman with long, dark hair. An FBI badge bearing the man's picture, and next to it, his name.

"Neal." Shawn blurted out.

The man stared at him, confused. "Have we met?"

Shawn was surprised to find himself hesitating about revealing his gift. Why? He had said he was a psychic hundreds of times before. Why was he hesitating now, when it was actually true? "I'm psychic."

Neal did not look overly impressed, although he was courteous enough not to openly call him out on it. "Is that so?"

"I work for, I mean, I used to work for the Santa Barbara Police Department. You're with the FBI, right?"

Neal smiled. "Did the suit give me away?"

"No." For some reason, it felt important for Neal to believe him. "I can see a badge with your name on it." Out of force of habit, his one hand rose to touch his temple. The gesture did nothing to focus his gift, but he found it comforting.

"Uh-huh." Neal didn't look any more convinced.

Shawn decided to take a risk. "I also see a woman with dark hair." Another picture formed in his head. "Something about a music box. And a plane."

Neal's face hardened, every hint of his smile gone. "How do you know about Kate?"

"Like I said, I'm psychic. I know about her, just like I know that you're supposed to help me." Actually, that wasn't strictly the truth, but it sounded impressive.

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Shawn pulled a crumpled photograph from his pocket and held it up for Neal to see. "This is Juliet. She's my girlfriend. She was abducted almost a month ago. I need to find her."

Neal glanced at the photograph briefly before returning his attention to Shawn. "The men who took her. Were they wearing dark green uniforms, almost like the ones you see on soldiers?"

Shawn felt his heart begin to race. He had been right. Somehow, Neal was going to help lead him to Juliet. "Yes."

Neal looked up at the sun. "Come with me. You need to meet my partner."

As Neal led the way to his as of yet nameless partner, Shawn brought to bear another one of his special gifts. This was one that he was much more familiar with. Before he had become psychic, whether by radiation or just years of wishful thinking, he had relied on his memory and his heightened skills of observation to solve crimes which left the police completely baffled. Not as flashy as a sixth sense, but significantly more reliable, as it turned out. He stared at Neal's back and waited for something to pop out at him. It didn't take long. The first thing that stuck out was Neal's suit. Shawn didn't know much about suits, being more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, except for when he was dressing up in a costume to infiltrate a hospital or a circus, but even he could tell that Neal's suit had to have been expensive. It was tailored perfectly to fit him, which meant that he cared about his appearance and he had enough resources to afford a tailor, unless he had tailored it himself, which was unlikely. Neal's hat, which now sat proudly atop his smooth, dark hair, was slightly worse for wear. A sentimental keepsake, perhaps?

Neal had openly admitted to working for the FBI. However, Shawn couldn't quite picture him storming crime scenes and strong-arming terrorists. He hadn't noticed any sign of a gun. Of course, it was possible that the gun was simply well-hidden. Going by his build, his manner, and his manicured appearance, Shawn would have guessed it was more likely that Neal was more of an office-type. And yet…something in those blue eyes said differently. There was a hunger for action, to leap into the thick of the fray, regardless of the consequences. Neal had reacted strongly at the mention of the girl named Kate. In Shawn's experience, that kind of reaction only came with history, usually of a romantic sort. They couldn't still be together, otherwise his face would have lighted up, instead of darkening like the sea before a storm. A former lover, then.

According to Neal, he and someone named Peter had been chasing an art forger when the nuclear attack occurred. That would make him white collar. Diamond heists and bank robberies and probably mountains of paperwork. Peter was most likely his partner. Unbidden, Shawn's psychic gift offered some input. Not just a partner. The word "handler" popped into his head. From what his father had told him, in the police, handlers usually worked with C.I.'s, or Confidential Informants. These informants were often former criminals, or at the very least, people with some connection to the underworld.

_Is Neal a criminal?_ Shawn wondered. Once again, the answer came back a second later. _Not exactly. _Somehow, Neal fell into the category of neither guilty nor innocent. _Nice to know_.

With new eyes, Shawn looked at Neal. Now, properly armed with this knowledge, he noticed how Neal moved, as if gliding along the street. He looked completely at ease, but something told Shawn that there actually was very little which escaped Neal's attention. At least they had that much in common.

Of course, it would have been easier to just ask Neal who he was, but if he was truly a criminal, Shawn couldn't be certain whether Neal would tell him the truth. Instead, he tried to prepare himself for the other half of Neal's operation. "What's your friend's name?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Neal said, leading the way around a corner. Standing under the mildewed awning of a decrepit corner store, was a man whom Shawn could only assume was Neal's partner. He was only an average height, maybe an inch taller than Shawn. However, he looked considerably fitter. His hair was short, dark blonde, almost ginger. Unlike Neal's eyes, which were bright and blue as an ocean, this man's eyes were hazel and uncomfortably flat as he stared back at Shawn. His eyes reminded Shawn of the eyes of a hunter, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. There was no doubt; this man was the one in charge of the operation.

"Peter?" he guessed.

The man shook his head once, slowly. "Dexter Morgan, Miami Police Department." He held out a hand.

Shawn took it. Dexter's grip was strong enough to make his fingers hurt. "Shawn Spencer."

Neal stepped forward to stand beside Dexter. "Shawn here says he's a psychic."

Although Neal might have tried to hide his disbelief, Dexter made no effort at all. A sarcastic smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. "Really?"

"Well, he knew about Kate and the music box. Also guessed that I'm with the FBI."

"The operating term being 'guessed'," Dexter retorted. He noticed Shawn's expression. "No offense. I'm just not a big believer in all that mystical, spiritual stuff."

If life was fair, this would be where Shawn's gift kicked in, revealing every aspect of Dexter's life and allowing him to break down Dexter to the bone until that smug smirk had been wiped off of his face for good. Of course, if life was fair, he also would still be with Juliet and all of the nukes would have turned into daisies, instead of destroying his life. Inside of him, it remained completely silent, as if he had never been psychic at all.

In desperation to have at least something to throw out, Shawn turned to good old observation. That yielded about as much. Dexter was dressed like any normal Joe. He was annoying, but then anyone could have noticed that. There was only one thing…

Shawn focused on the strange chill that Dexter's eyes gave him. As he concentrated, it was as if he could actually feel whatever this psychic gift was shrinking away, beaten back like dust by the wings of a…

"Shadow." Shawn didn't realize he had said the word out loud until he saw the reaction on Dexter's face. The word meant absolutely nothing to Shawn, but it apparently meant something to Dexter. The man took a step back as if slapped.

"Okay, then." Dexter said. "Where did this 'psychic' come from, and why did you bring him back with you?"

"Only four blocks away. He was sitting on the curb, curled over like he was having the world's worst headache. As to why I decided to bring him back, well Shawn, why don't you tell Dex what you told me?"

_About being psychic? Oh, right, about Juliet_. Shawn hesitated a moment. Asking Neal to help him was one thing; asking Dexter was another. This guy looked like the king of skepticism. Still, he couldn't rescue Juliet alone. "My girlfriend Juliet was abducted twenty-six days ago by a group of men wearing old military uniforms, like the ones they wore before General Casey changed everything." He reached up and unconsciously ran a hand over the scar on his chest. "I tried to stop them, but I failed."

Dexter held up a hand to stop him. He looked up and down the street. "You'd better come inside. It isn't wise to talk out in the open like this."

The inside of the store was in shambles, the shelves stripped by someone who had obviously been in a hurry. There was a faint odor of spoiled fruit from where a few cans of peaches had fallen to the floor and broken open, exposing their contents to the contaminating air. A blanket was crumpled in one corner by the checkout desk. Shawn guessed that either Dexter or Neal had been using this store as a place to sleep. Next to the blanket were a backpack and a rolled-up bundle of leather. Dexter followed Shawn's gaze to the bundle. "A few tools of my trade," he explained.

Neal came in behind them, shutting the door firmly. "All right, Dexter. I think you should tell Shawn about your own quest."

Dexter leaned back against the counter. "I'm looking for someone, just like you. My sister, Deborah. She was taken over two months ago, under circumstances similar to the way you lost Juliet. I've...we've," he said, amending himself with an apologetic nod towards Neal, "been tracking down the men who took her. We got as far as this town when the trail went cold." He cocked an eyebrow at Shawn. "You say you're a psychic. Do you know where they're headed?"

Shawn shook his head, frustration welling up inside of him. "I haven't been able to sense anything. This whole 'psychic' thing is kind of new to me, and I don't really know how to control it. It seems to come and go on its own."

"I see." Dexter was silent for a moment. When he resumed speaking, it was directed towards Neal. "Did you find out anything today?"

"No, not a thing." Neal sighed. "Maybe we've lost them."

Dexter's eyes blazed with a new light. "We have _not_ lost them. I don't care how long it takes; I am going to find my sister."

Neal raised his hands and took a step back. "Easy. I didn't mean it. It's just frustrating staying in one place without one shred of progress."

Dexter didn't reply. Instead, he pushed off from the counter and stalked past them to the back of the store.

Neal ran a hand through his hair and smiled wanly at Shawn. "Sorry about that. Dexter's an okay guy, really. He's just worried about his sister."

Shawn pointed a thumb in the direction Dexter had vanished. "How did you end up with him?"

Neal picked up the backpack on the floor and unzipped it. "It's a long story, and you must be famished. The perk of scouring every inch of this town for clues is that we have managed to stockpile plenty of food." He placed two cans of green beans on the counter, followed by two plastic forks and a manual can opener. "Make yourself comfortable and have some dinner. When Dexter gets like this, it's better to leave him alone."

"Where did he go?"

Neal shrugged and began to open the cans. "Probably out back to blow off some steam. Don't worry; he can take care of himself." He handed one of the cans to Shawn, along with a fork, and then hopped nimbly up onto the counter. After settling onto his perch, he began to talk.

"Before I joined the FBI, I used to dabble in bond forgery and art theft, along with a dozen other variations of white collar crime. I was quite the protégé. Then I was arrested by Agent Peter Burke of the FBI. After a few incredibly boring years in prison, I convinced Peter Burke to let me out and take me on as a consultant in the white collar division of the FBI. That's what I was doing when the bombs hit. As I mentioned previously, Peter and I were both in Boston when it happened. Luckily, Peter's wife was out of the city, supervising a wedding reception in Westfield. Once the dust settled, Peter and I headed for Westfield to find his wife. Until three weeks ago, Peter and I worked together to reunite families that had been separated. It felt good, doing something, however small, to patch the world back together.

Then one day, we got separated. We were looking for the two sons of a poor widow whose husband was murdered during the chaos following the attack. It was quite the noble quest. Unfortunately, the two sons were in different cities. Peter wanted to look for the younger first and then leave together in search of the elder. However, I convinced him that we didn't have any time to waste. I was concerned that we would not be able to find the elder son if we waited. Peter was against it, but in the end, we split up."

Neal shook his head wearily. "Even after all that, I was still too late. The elder son died of radiation poisoning before I could find him. All I could do was help identify the body. I had planned to rejoin with Peter, but it seems that fate has something else in mind for me." Neal removed his suit coat and unbuttoned a single pristine, white sleeve. He rolled it up to his elbow, revealing a dark, jagged scar that was still only partially healed. "They were on me before I knew what had happened. They wanted to kill me. I could see it in their faces. I never found out if they wanted my money or just my life. Then, out of nowhere, Dexter appeared." For a moment Neal was caught up in the memory, his expression saying more about that moment than spoken words ever could. With some effort, he shook himself free and quickly finished the story. "He stopped them. I owe him my life for that, so in return I am helping him find his sister. It appears that the same people who took his sister may have been the ones who took your girlfriend."

Shawn cut in. "I never told you she was my girlfriend."

Neal smiled. "You didn't have to. I can see the fire in your eyes when you talk about her. If you want to travel with us, you are welcome. It might be useful to have a psychic on our side and when you track them down, you may need a hand defeating them. I may not be much of a fighter, but Dexter is worth a dozen men in a fight. So what do you say?" He held out a hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Shawn looked at Neal's outstretched hand. It was risky, joining up with two men he hardly knew, especially these two. He didn't have to be a psychic to know that they were hiding something from him. Neal had openly confessed to being a conman, and Shawn had learned from Juliet's father that conmen did not change their stripes easily. As for Dexter, there was something dangerous hidden beneath that polished exterior. Shawn had seen it in his eyes, if only for a second, and that one glimpse had scared him more than anything he had seen before. However, if his vision was to be believed, than these two men might be his best chance at finding Juliet. _If they turn out to be too dangerous, I can always leave._

Neal was still waiting, that flawless smile begging him to accept. Shawn took his hand. "Deal."

_What the hell have I gotten myself into?_


End file.
